


Sororis

by abluevixen (knightofbows)



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Magic, M/M, baker!Percival Graves, baker!Queenie Goldstein
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 04:40:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9219401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knightofbows/pseuds/abluevixen
Summary: Percival Graves owns a bakery with Tina and Queenie Goldstein, but even after leaving his life of law enforcement behind, he still can't stand idly by in the face of violence. Especially violence against Credence, the regular customer who's managed to charm him.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yogurtgun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yogurtgun/gifts).



The small bell above the front door rang at just the right pitch for Percival to hear even over the whirring motor of the mixer. He turns it off, pausing only the half-second needed to know the customer had service, then returns to whipping the cheesecake icing needed for the next day’s case displays. The blades disappear in the thick confection, and Percival leaves the standing mixer to busy himself with checking some dough left to rise.

“Mr. Graves?” comes Queenie’s cheery chirp. “We have a customer looking for a something special. Any recommendations?” The way she bites the corner of her lip is all the warning Percival needs to recognize the trap for what it is. After all, the whole point of his business arrangement with the Goldstein sisters was for him to do _his thing_ —baking—while they handle _other things_ —people. In the few years they’d worked together, he was only ever summoned as the owner to handle particularly rowdy customers. Though, were he honest with himself, he’s often customer-facing when Queenie and Tina are swarmed by customers, which happened with horrifying regularity. Still, he didn’t like it, and he was never called upon for _recommendations_.

“Just offer one of the filled cupcakes or something,” Percival mutters, waving his hand dismissively. “They sell the best. You know this.”

“Oh, I think this requires a more _personal_ touch. I’m sure you can spare a moment.” Her eyebrow raises in that suggestive way, and Percival, not for the first time, questions the decisions made by his past self. The one who, somehow, thought it was a good idea to leave a perfectly stable career with a sizable retirement package in favor of opening a bakery, of all things, with one of his former subordinates and her sister.

Heaving a put-upon sigh, Percival wipes his hands on his apron, then swivels between the various metal tables and tray stacks to approach the storefront. He doesn’t bother making himself presentable—this isn’t a scheduled meeting with a bride-to-be or an indulgent mother—and he wants to return to work as quickly as possible. He does, however, soften his expression, feigning an interest and concern customers typically expect.

Feigning morphs into genuine joy when he realizes which customer it is that needs the recommendation.

“Credence,” Percival says, the levity in his voice shockingly authentic. He’s relieved.

“Mr. Graves,” he answers, his smile small. “I’m glad you’d see me.” His hair has grown out since the last Percival laid eyes on him—well over his ears and down nearly past his jaw—and has it really been that long since Credence has visited the bakery? Surely not. Though he seems thinner, cheeks and jaw sharper than Percival remembers, the quiet burden that always weighed upon Credence is absent. He looks good—cleaner, more collected, his clothes a little less worn. He looks happy, and Percival has rarely ever seen him so.

Though his achingly sweet smile—the only payment Credence could ever offer in exchange for the goods Percival frequently slipped him—is a thing Percival keeps close to his own cold, wounded heart. Even then, Percival is hard pressed to believe those smiles were truly happy. Perhaps relieved. Perhaps grateful. Always on behalf of a younger sister who wouldn’t go hungry that night.

Percival glances worriedly towards the front door. Beside him, Queenie has mysteriously disappeared. The store is strangely vacant. “Is your mother waiting on you?” he asks, reaching for the case where their signature bread, still warm, sits. He takes a bag, prepared to quickly fill a regular order, and adds, “Had I known, I would have—”

“My mother isn’t an issue anymore,” Credence says quietly. He doesn’t move to stop Percival from preparing the bread, though, so Percival slides it into the bag before tightly cinching it closed with a tie.

A radical evangelical, Mary Lou Barebone parented her children with an iron fist, if it could even be called parenting. And though the truth of the statement is hard for Percival to accept, he doesn’t question Credence’s sincerity. Despite the comfort this should bring, all Percival can think of is that fateful day Mary Lou had made the mistake of reprimanding Credence in Percival’s presence.

Percival still doesn’t know what trespass Credence had committed. In all the months the Barebones had patroned Sororis, whether alone or with his family, Credence had been perfectly courteous. Manners minded and respect doled out in waves of gratitude for even the most meager of kindness. Soft spoken and humble, Percival had been immediately charmed. But that day, something happened in his bakery, something he cannot name because he didn’t see it, that summoned the vengeful harpy’s wrath from the blackened pit where, maybe, Mary Lou had once had compassion.

One moment, Percival and Tina were gathering that week’s order for the Barebones, the next, the smack of Mary Lou’s flattened knuckles against Credence’s face halted them.

Despite the tentatively superficial relationship Percival had established with Credence over his many visits to collect bread at his mother’s behest, despite how they were very nearly strangers to one another no matter the pleasantries and anecdotes they exchanged in passing, Percival did not abide violence of any kind in his establishment. He launched himself over the counter, half-packaged goods forgotten, and shoved himself between Mary Lou and Credence before the woman could finish raising her hand for a second strike. When she swung, committed, Percival grabbed her by the wrist.

The other children congregated along the far wall of the store, well behind their mother. Behind him, Percival heard Credence’s quiet gasp.

“Release me, you brute,” Mary Lou snapped.

Percival snarled in answer, “ _Don’t_ raise your hand to him in my store.” He did release her after that, shoving hard for her to stumble the few steps back to further distance her from Credence.

“You’ve no right to tell me how to raise my child.”

“But I have every right to tell you how to behave in my store.”

She left quickly with the other children in tow; terrified ducklings following their ruffled, peacocking mother. Credence stayed behind. When Percival finally turned to him, sure Mary Lou wouldn’t return anytime soon, he found him shaking. He offered his couch for Credence to take for the night, and Credence didn’t refuse him.

The next time Percival saw Credence—nearly a week later—he was beaten worse than before. With hands bleeding from a lashing, a painful twitch in his jaw from other wounds Percival couldn’t see, he came into Sororis and placed the Barebones’ regular order. He only fleetingly met Percival’s gaze and muttered an airy thanks when Tina handed him his purchase.

“She did that because of you,” Tina told Percival, once Credence had left. “To show you.”

And Percival knew. He retreated to the kitchen more often than not after that.

But now Credence stands before him with a spine straighter than he’s ever seen it, and a shy joy in his eyes and smile.

“That’s…good,” Percival manages. “That’s very good. I’m glad to hear it.” He looks away from Credence’s dark, glittering eyes and busies himself with tidying up a few of the display cases.

He doesn’t know…he knows Credence was beaten because of him, because of his interference. But he also knows that, before the confrontation with his mother, Credence lingered in the store. Pervical remembers how Credence would find a seat tucked away from customer traffic and watch him work, piping doves onto three tier cakes or flowers onto cupcakes. He knows these things, yet he doesn’t know why Credence is there _now_  or why Queenie vanished or why Tina is tardy for her shift.

Credence hovers near the display case Percival sporadically rearranges. Strawberry tarts, cut and layered like a confectionery mandala. He stands on his toes to lean as close as possible without touching the crystal clear glass. “They’re lovely,” he says, a lilt of awe in his soft voice.

“Have you tried them before?”

His small smile becomes weighted with sadness at the corners. “Never had the pleasure.”

Percival impulsively grabs one nearest him and presents it to Credence.

“I couldn’t possibly.”

“Sure you can,” Percival pushes.

Credence takes the tart, and his pale cheeks flush to match the hearts of the strawberries. “You’re very kind, Mr. Graves.”

Percival shrugs. “I’ve a whole case of them. It’s no trouble.” Though he tries to go to task organizing and reorganizing Sororis’ stock for the day, he can’t help how he watches Credence eat the tart: how his eyes flutter closed in something like bliss, how the tip of his tongue sweeps his plush bottom lip, how he brings a knuckle to catch the cream that at the corner of his mouth. “Good?” Percival ventures. 

“Divine,” Credence answers. “Though—” He pops the remaining bite of tart into his mouth so casually Percival nearly knocks over a cupcake display tier. He covers his mouth while he chews with the back of his hand, and Percival can see the pink scars crossing his palms. After he swallows, Credence continues, “—I wasn’t referring entirely to the tart.”

Percival arches an eyebrow.

“Regarding your kindness,” he clarifies.

Percival nods, but remains silent.

“I don’t remember ever properly thanking you.”

He doesn’t have to ask.

The morning after he’d invited Credence to his couch, he found him curled up beneath the thick woolen blanket as comfortable as a cat, shoulders and limbs finally free of Mary Lou’s burdensome presence. Percival isn’t romantic, but there was something aesthetically pleasing about how the sunlight filtered through the blinds to bequeath unto Credence with the only stripes he should ever wear.

He brewed Credence artisan coffee that morning, drawing a cat with foam as easily as he drew birds with icing. It pulled a laugh from Credence, who proceeded to sip as carefully as he could to preserve the image. Percival cooked a hardy and savory breakfast for Credence, pulling recipes from when Mother spoiled him during holiday breaks from university. And when Credence reluctantly departed near noon, he did so with a daring, light kiss to Percival’s coffee-warm lips; then left Percival wondering if anything he did made a difference.

The vicious marks freshly marring Credence’s ivory skin a week later told him it hadn’t.

Percival asks anyway: “For what?”

Pursing his lips, Credence recites, “ _But a certain Samaritan, as he journeyed, came where he was: and when he saw him, he had compassion on him. And went to him, and bound up his wounds, pouring in oil and wine, and set him on his own beast, and brought him to an inn, and took care of him_.” When Percival frowns, Credence says, “Luke 10:33 and 34.” In the face of Percival’s continued silence, Credence adds, “The Good Samaritan?”

“I didn’t bind up your wounds, Credence,” Percival sighs. “I made things worse for you.”

Credence scoffs, and it’s a sound Percival never imagined him capable of making. The barest curling of his lip, a near snarl, is also quite at odds with the Credence Percival thought he knew. It surprises him, but he _likes_ it. “Oh, you think you had something to do with that?”

“I _know_ I had something to do with it. If I hadn’t—”

His laugh is sardonic, a perfect, poignant juxtaposition to the light melody that had filled Percival’s kitchen the one morning they had together. It’s so severely jarring, in fact, that Percival’s heart aches at the sound. Credence says, “If you hadn’t intervened, true, she may not have beaten me quite so bad once I’d returned home, but I also wouldn’t ultimately be standing here, _trying to thank you_.” With a soft gaze and a gentle smile, Credence continues, “I’m not with my mother anymore, Mr. Graves.”

“Yes. You’ve said that.” He wipes his hands on his apron absently.

“I left with my younger sister shortly after…all that.”

“The little blonde one? Modesty, right?”

“Mm. We found a couple seeking a child to brighten their lives. She’s happy and cared for. I couldn’t ask for more.”

“We?”

Credence tilts his head curiously, then his eyes widen with something that looks like horror. It alarms Percival, and he braces himself for some sort of outburst. “You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“You don’t know.”

“Clearly, Credence,” Percival drawls. “Do you intend to inform me?”

“Ms. Goldstein was supposed to…tell you…” Credence’s former confidence abandons him as quick as a flock of spooked pigeons, and he sags like a puppet with cut strings. He takes a step back, and then another, as if he’s made a terrible mistake and has no idea how to fix it.

This is more akin to the Credence Percival remembers, though he finds he doesn’t much like it.

After a beat of hesitation, Percival asks, “Which one?”

“Tina.”

Who still hasn’t arrived for her shift.

The small muscles beneath Percival’s left eye twitch faintly as his annoyance quickly swells into outright anger. “Well,” he says, carefully, “as it seems she’s failed to tell me something incredibly important, I’d appreciate it if you could perhaps enlighten me in her stead.”

Credence chews his lip until it swells into a slight pout and shoves his hands into the shallow pockets of his thin jacket. “Modesty’s new family,” he starts. “They let me stay with them for a while, so I wouldn’t have to go back to mother, but I’ve overstayed my welcome.”

“You need a place to stay,” and Percival could kick himself for how much it sounds like a statement instead of a question.

“I need a _job_ , Mr. Graves,” Credence quickly corrects.

This…surprises Percival. It must show on his face, because Credence flushes as if he’s spent a day along the shore. Percival straightens and abandons all pretense of rearranging pastries to, instead, fold his arms and quirk a smile.

Still, Credence drudges up what courage he can and forges forth: “With you, Mr. Graves. For you, I mean. I want to work for you.”

“But do you have a place to stay?” Percival asks.

“That’s not what I’m asking for,” Credence insists, nearly stuttering over the words.

“Fine,” Percival agrees, “but it’s what I’m asking. Do you have a place to stay?”

“After a week or two of honest work, I should be able to—”

“So no.”

Credence huffs in frustration and clenches his jaw, but he doesn’t dispute Percival’s conclusion.

“Because I still have that couch,” Percival offers quietly.

With a furrowed brow, Credence presses, “I’m not looking for a hand-out.”

“And I’m not giving you one,” Percival counters. “I’m…a Good Samaritan, say.”

Credence stares at him with abject horror for nearly five whole seconds before snorting through a failed attempt to stifle his laughter. Then, perhaps because of the absurdity, or perhaps due to relief or gratitude, Credence laughs whole-heartedly. He covers his blushing face with a quick hand; but it nearly mimics the joyous sound Percival pulled from him in his kitchen what feels like a lifetime ago, when he’d made him coffee and breakfast, just before Credence had kissed him goodbye.

Percival bites his lip and averts his gaze, trying not to smile too broadly in response.

With traces of amusement still curling the corners of his mouth, Credence asks, “Will you hire me, Mr. Graves?”

“Of course.”

“May I sleep on your couch, Mr. Graves?”

Whether Credence knows it or not, the question is tortuously sweet for Percival. It takes him two full heartbeats to reregulate how his pulse spikes before he answers, “Yes.”

“When will I start?”

The door to the back kitchen opens suddenly. It slams into the wall with a loud bang that startles both Percival and Credence.

“I’M SORRY! SORRY! I KNOW I’M LATE!”

Tina surges past Percival while still tying an apron around her waist. Her short hair is pulled back into a messy tail, and she immediately grabs a hanging clipboard with the day’s itinerary. She doesn’t pay the pair of them much mind until the silence left in the wake of her whirlwind arrival becomes suffocating.

“What?” she asks.

Smirking, Percival looks to Credence and says, “Now that Tina’s finally here to cover the front counter, come into the back. We’ll get started now.”

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on tumblr: [foxtricks](http://foxtricks.tumblr.com/)  
> and follow me twitter for general shenanigans: [@_foxtricks](http://twitter.com/_foxtricks/)


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